Saints and Sinners
by DasCheesenborgir
Summary: In the fires of Hell, even the supposed Angels look like demons.


**Just a really quick disclaimer, don't look too hard for logic behind some of the plans/context I tried to outline here, since you won't find too much.**

**Post-writing edit: Scratch that, you won't find much logic by the end period. This is what I get for staying up late watching DHIS and The Punisher back to back. **

**0-0-0**

An overwhelming scent of bitter smoke and ashen incense tunneled into his nostrils the moment he stepped through the door. Silhouettes of writhing sirens were painted onto the dim red walls by the lasting orange glow, their arms snaking up and dancing with the fluttering tendrils of flame. The warped and screechy wail of jazz tunes scraped out of damaged speakers, buzzing over the curses and rambunctious laughter of Gomorrah's patrons.

A monument and celebration of man's sins. Dangerous game, but Benny could see why House had kept it around- for in the city of sin, no place could be more profitable than one that offered the rare comfort of flesh, however simulated it was. Who wouldn't give all the caps in the world for a fountain of excess and pleasure to drown out their cares?

He brought up his hand in a futile attempt to clear away the wispy musk that clung to his checkered suit, resisting the urge to cough.

The surface of his skin crawled, as though the artificial orange flames painting the chipped walls were actually stinging, charring, his frayed nerves.

Straightening his back and rubbing at his creased forehead, he braced himself and strode forwards into the gates of hell.

The gatekeeper was quick to stop him. A demon in white, an unassuming suit covering his frame, a simple hat sitting atop his head. Benny couldn't help but notice that the man's tie was askew.

Normally he would've been a bit more cautious around a man with a tommy gun levelled at his chest, but… well, he supposed he had to admit that becoming the new ruler of New Vegas did bump up his ego a little.

"Your boss is expecting me," he said, raising his voice just a little bit to make sure he was heard over the sinful orchestra of clinking glasses and rattling chips.

"Boss_es_," corrected the guard. "And they didn't invite the fucking TVs."

_Oh. Right. _

Maybe he was just imagining things, what with the tensions as of late fucking up his mind, but he could've sworn he heard the Securitrons bristle behind him in quiet, mechanical whirrs.

"Come on now, you know it's just for security-"

"Don't fuck with us Benny. You think we're stupid? Everyone knows you did… something with those tin bastards. We heard about the shit that went down in Freeside."

Benny found himself quietly cursing Mr. House for making something as significant as a military upgrade to his robots as obvious to pick out as swapping out their 'faces'- might as well have put up another neon sign over Vegas saying "look at us, we're an actual military threat now!".

Maybe that was the whole point, to intimidate the enemy- but as far as he was concerned now, that was just one more problem on his plate. As though dealing with the day-to-day activities of listening to Yes Man prattle on about economic printouts, doing his best to meet the heavy requests for medical supplies that Ortal kept pressing him for-

He let out an exasperated sigh. He could pretty soon add 'being harassed by asshole bouncers' to that list.

"If I _wanted _this place levelled with rockets, you don't think I would've just done that already?"

Though he tried to keep a smug grin on his face, he couldn't help but internally grimace as he recalled the… less than peaceful protests that had erupted in Freeside just days after he had taken his place at the top of the Lucky 38.

Pure coincidence, he was assured by Ortal, just bad timing on his end. He supposed a bunch of starving and thirsty squatters could only sit still for so long before trying to rise up and make a point- too bad in the wastes, the idea of 'peaceful protest' wasn't exactly a commonly known idea.

_Lucky my ass, _he reflected bitterly. He was the last person who would've wanted to drown out the cries of a mob of desperate people with a barrage of rockets but… hell, a man had to do what he had to do to keep order, didn't he?

That was… how many days ago now? Hell if he knew. Everything that happened ever since he'd instated himself as the ruler of Vegas just seemed to blend together in one unending mush of stress and managerial turmoil.

Though he didn't want to admit it, he was concerned about that Ortal girl; she looked like she was holding up even worse than he did as of late. Hadn't said a word in the past few days, he'd never seen her eat a bite of anything. Probably more than a little upset with how he handled the Freeside situation, and his refusal to grant her and her Follower buddies the meds they needed to clean up the aftermath…

He added yet another mental note to his to-do list to check up on her. They were good, honest people, a rarity in the world these days- he wished he could help them, but as he pretty quickly came to realize, being a shriveled old man ruling over a city ruled by _robots _didn't exactly call for a sustainable supply of sterile doctoring equipment.

_Nothing I can do about that now, _returning his mind to the task at hand.

…maybe he could try arranging a dinner over at the Ultra Luxe to smooth things over with her? After all, he was scheduling a visit to there soon, just to check on things… or maybe not, that would probably make it seem like-

_Hey, fuckface, wake up._

"So yeah," he finished. "To answer your question, I would say you're on the less intelligent side of things."

Agonizing seconds ticked by as he waited for the Omerta to respond, watching the lines of the man's face slowly crease into a frown.

His own hand began to twitch- a fairly unsettling habit he'd developed as of late when he was anticipating that shit was about to go down. The wailing tones and strobelike dance of flames weren't doing the sleep-deprived ends of his nerves any favors either.

"Fine," he answered back at last.

_Phew. _

Benny nodded his thanks, and prepared to step past, only for an arm to shoot out and bar his way. He suddenly became aware of the stench of tobacco and sweat (whether it was his own or the guard's he couldn't really tell anymore) flooding his senses as the guard leaned in menacingly, crooked teeth splayed out in an ugly maw.

"Just so you know, pretty boy," he growled in a childish attempt at intimidation, "try anything funny, and we'll turn those tin cans of yours into scrap metal in no time. There's only two of them, and a whole casino full of us. Got it?"

"I'll keep that in mind," he answered back neutrally.

The guard continued to stare him down with the intensity of a neutered mole rat, and Benny had to keep himself from rolling his eyes when he realized the bastard was waiting for some sort of rise out of him.

_Humanity and its pride, _he thought as he rubbed pinched the exposed nape of his neck, only then realizing that, despite his efforts to remain collected, his hairs were right on end.

But the gesture did its job, and the bouncer, satisfied that he'd put the fear of god into the king of Vegas, stepped aside.

_Ye who enter, abandon all hope. _

**0-0-0**

"Fuck," he hissed as the crate smacked against the concrete with a loud, metallic, _bang, _reverberating out across the stone walls towering over him like a gunshot.

"Jesus Carlitos, you want us to get pegged before we even get in?" Hissed Little Beard behind him.

"Not my fucking fault the Brotherhood decided they'd add in a special delivery of theirs, shit!"

"Pipe down, you idiots," growled Big Beard. "Just pick it up, keep moving, and they won't suspect a thing from us. Whatever it is, can't be any heavier than their regular weapon shipments."

"Yeah? How about you try lugging this piece of shit with us?" He bit back as he smoothed out his grimy white suit and readjusted the shades resting over his eyes.

The man in question studied him contemplatively for a moment, making a note to stroke that damn scraggy beard of his before reaching out with a muscled arm and grabbing onto an edge of the cold steel box they were hauling along.

Carlitos personally insisted that they shave the damn things to attract less attention, but the stubborn bastards had none of it. He huffed, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he bent down and grabbed another edge of the box before exchanging a look with his two companions and heaving it up.

Maybe he should've just went and done it his way.

Any number of the plans he'd come up with were stupid as all hell anyways, but accepting the aid of some grizzly old bastard that had sauntered up to his seat claiming to be from the goddamn Brotherhood of all things probably topped all of them. He'd passed the guy off as a senile, or drunk at first, but…

The concrete ground scrolled past him at an agonizing pace, one step at a time.

Well, maybe the beer has been buzzing at the back of his skull a little as well, but he'd decided to humor him. All he had to do was say, "sure, why the hell not?". And then the day after, he waltzed into his room, piss drunk, only to find three genuine and pressed Omerta suits, complete with polished and brand new guns to go with them.

The muscle fibres in his arms were on fire, but he pressed forwards despite the pain, the task at hand too important for him to care about some petty discomforts.

And then, there'd been this… _thing. _Just a hastily scribbled note on it containing a ton of shit he didn't know the Omertas were up to- trying to pry open to crate only resulted in snapped crowbars and a couple broken bottles of beer.

Though the note said something about weapon shipments, he was pretty sure a big box full of guns didn't weigh _this _much. One gun on its wasn't that heavy, so what was twenty more?

"Almost there," whispered Little Beard.

Carlitos turned his gaze up, having to squint in the darkness of the shrouded alleys behind Gomorrah, tucked away in the night from the prying eyes of strangers and the illuminating lights of the Strip.

"Wh-"

His words froze on his tongue around the same time his heart skipped a beat as he saw the undeniable outline of two Omerta goons standing on guard in the shadows.

Holy shit. This was actually happening.

The initial bout of nervousness and fear at the sudden realization of what he was about to do was quickly washed away as he steeled himself, and strode forwards with a renewed vigor. Hell, for a moment as he walked the crate over to the two guards, and casually exchanged friendly nods of acknowledgement with them in a natural instinct, it almost felt like old times again.

A rusty metal door was all there was- no locks, no elaborate security protocols or secret passwords, just a simple movement of the arm and it creaked open, revealing a ramshackle hallway that had seen better days.

He sucked in a deep breath as they led him and the Beards inside, the familiar smokes and incenses filling his lungs.

Every shriek of animal pleasure that wormed through the decayed and run-down halls sent chills down his spine. Every wail of the sirens and seductresses twisted and warped themselves into the soothing and painfully sweet voice of Joana.

With a click, the door shut once again behind them, what few scraps of the cool, outside air there was grazing against the sweat soaked cloth of his back, cut off.

And then, for the second time that night, he dropped the crate he was carrying- not out of tiredness, or physical inability to hold onto it, but shock.

"What the fu-"

With a pneumatic hiss, the clamps on the container's lid snapped off, and with a reverberating trio of gunshots that seemed to shatter the heated air around him, the heads of the two goons accompanying them were eviscerated.

He watched in utter disbelief as the flesh clinging to their skulls disintegrated, peeling off in blossoms of gore and sinew. Still on the outskirts of the raging flames of Gomorrah, with only a few muted echoes of the debauchery taking place within drifting over, the deafening roar of gunfire shook him to his bone.

Steaming hot blood coated the peeled paint of the walls in a fresh layer of red, and the lifeless heaps of flesh that had been a pair of Omertas smacked against the concrete.

Brass casings clattered against the ground, and ever so slowly, mind racing to keep up with what had just happened, he turned his wide eyed gaze down to the crate. A cacophony of metallic scrapes and mechanical whirring filled his ears as the armor clad figure entombed within hauled themselves out.

Bulky plates of gunmetal grey illuminated under the dim red of the ceiling lights, squeezed out of the container's tight compartment, crudely welded steel giving the wearer the appearance of a walking tank.

The trademark visage of cold steel covered the entirety of their face, a pair of tubes protruding from the frowning respirator etched into the mask.

Fucking power armor.

"H-hey Carlitos, is that-"

"Yeah," he answered breathlessly to Little Beard. "I think it is."

For a terrifying moment as he watched the armored figure step out with a pneumatic hiss and echoing boom, he thought the thing might turn on them- what if that was it? What if the Brotherhood had just used him for their own agenda, and were going to dispose of him just like that?

His heart pounded in his chest as the… person, if it even was one, reached into the box, and… at an almost leisurely pace, even with the clunky and mechanical movements of the armor, reached in and pulled out belts and satchels of ammunition. Bullets clinked and jingled with a morbidly eager tune, anticipating the slaughter they would soon be used to unleash.

The Paladin spared he and the dumbstruck Beards barely a sideways glance before striding forth into the blaring sounds of echoing ecstasy, levelling the blocky mass of a machine gun at its hip.

Carlitos didn't let out the breath he'd been holding in until the power armored soldier disappeared around the corner, the heavy footfalls of its rhythmical march coalescing with the orchestra of orgasmic moans snaking through the halls.

"Come on," he motioned to his partners, "let's go."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? As far as I'm concerned, the Brotherhood just gave us one helluva diversion, and I'm not going to let that go to waste."

"You sure we can't just… sit this one out?" Queried Big Beard. "I mean… they'll gonna do a lot of damage. We could just wait til this all blows over."

"And you think they'd care if Joana gets in the way?"

"What if _we _get in the way?" Shot back Little Beard.

"Then stay here. I'll go after her on my own." He hefted the stocky tommy gun in his hands, the weight of it feeling… familiar, in his calloused hands as he aimed down the sights at a patch of blood on the wall, getting a feel for the weapon again.

He didn't even need to look back as he descended down the chipped plaster stairs to know that the Beards overcame their initial doubts and followed him. He was a lucky man, he reflected, to have a pair of companions that would literally follow him into hell- he could only hope he could add 'and back' to that phrase after this ordeal.

**0-0-0**

She gazed into the cracked and grimy mirror, her glossy, polished lips locked in a flaccid thin line as she wiped away a smear of eyeliner across her porcelain face. Wordlessly and emotionlessly, she twisted the sink faucet open.

Like the tense and slick moments before a bursting orgasm, the thing let out a tortured groan of rusted metal before spewing out a stream of surprisingly clear liquid.

She splashed it onto her face, the basslike rush of water drowning out the content pants and heavy breathing of her most recent customer in the adjacent room. It was cold. Numbing. Soothing, like the slippery ice of Med-X crawling through her veins.

She could've left the sink running forever, basking in the coolness until it seeped into her lungs and gently set her down in a watery blue grave, but an almost mechanical sense of routine soon kicked her out of the water-drunken trance she found herself in.

Rivulets of water splashed against the dusty grey of the countertop as he slowly raised her head, staring back into her reflection.

Contemplatively, curiously, she studied the spiderweb patterns etched into the reflective surface, how they groped at her bare skin, distorting and mutilating her body. Edged rifts cutting along her flesh, dried blood and dirty brown grime clinging to the festering wounds.

She reached up with an ivory hand, and brushed aside a strand of sopping wet hair, leaning in closer in a lackluster attempt to look for the cut that she could have sworn she'd gotten earlier on her forehead.

Sure enough, there it rested upon the sprawling plains of manicured white, barely even a faded pink line as opposed to the red and raw rift she'd been expecting.

Nary an irritated hiss or wince broke the slumped mask of indifference on her face, as she dipped a hand into the womb of the leather purse by her side, numbed fingers fumbling over shapeless plastic and colorless trinkets before they found the grey expanse of a small cloth.

Under the sink that went, even the tiniest stream of water trickling from the head of the faucet enticing, the tranquil ecstasy that soothing coldness would bring beckoning to her.

Her other hand instinctively reached back to her purse, the leather just barely creaking as her flesh scraped by its sides, to search for the familiar and thin tube of a hypo. She stopped herself before her arm had even reached out, briefly pausing to realize that the blurry mirage she'd just experienced was little more than a fantasy.

This time, when the cold touched her forehead again, the doused cloth she brought up the cut, it stung her. Like it was digging, clawing its way into that little cut, splaying it open and letting all the dirt and grime of the dimly lit room rush into her body, crawling through her veins, cutting, slicing, thrashing, cracking her open until she was nothing more than a shattered and twisted lump of flesh, dried blood and dirty brown grime feasting on her corpse-

"Joana."

_Joana? _

She mulled over the word for a few brief seconds, before the voice called out to her again, sterner this time.

"Joana."

She turned around, suddenly aware once more of the blaring saxophones filling the crackly air, the shocking cold ceramic tiles beneath her bare feet. Joana- that was her name. Right.

"Yeah?" She rasped out.

The white-clad man casually tossed a bundle of black cloth at her. Thoughtlessly, her arms curled upwards to accept the gilded rags, sumptuous tatters of ebon silk.

"Bosses want you down in Zoara in ten minutes, don't keep 'em waiting," he said in a gravelly voice that spoke of years of smoking. He paused in the cracked doorframe, turning back to gaze at her pale figure.

"And… get yourself straightened out. You look like a fucking walking corpse."

He yanked the stiff door shut, snuffing out the rays of light from the hallway. A bitter chuckle wormed its way out of her drained lips, the biting cynicism stroking her thoughts the most feeling she'd experienced all day.

Wasn't her fault she was never given any clothes to hide her true nature.

**0-0-0**

"So, Mister Benny. Can I call you Benny?"

Big Sal's thick accent, mixed in deep with a certain blend of grit and shattered glass didn't exactly make his voice the most pleasant thing to listen to. That, and Benny hated it when people called him 'Mister'.

"Well, I mean you already addressed me as Benny, so- why not?"

A humorless chuckle in that same damn voice was all he received in response, and Big Sal rose from the crimson cushion he was perched on, raising up a hand and clapping it down on Benny's shoulder.

"Alright Benny," he repeated. "Benny, Benny. You know, Benny's a pretty fucking spiffy name and all, but you know what you need?"

Sal leaned in close to his ear, forcing the incense-filled maw of his mouth up so close Benny could swear he felt it brush by his ear.

"I wouldn't know," he answered back.

"A _title!_" Sal exclaimed, right into his ear no less. He threw an arm around his shoulder, using his other to gesture out towards the gathered… officials, he supposed they were, or whatever the Omerta equivalent of those were. Like hell if he knew.

He tried to force a polite grin onto his stiff lips, but he knew as well as every person in the room that it was hastily cobbled together mask.

"A big, fucking _title_, for the dumbshit, ballsy motherfucker that put a cap in rat bastard House's brain!"

An approving cheer briefly blotted out the din of sex and saxophones churning in the lowest pit of Gomorrah, the gathered crowd of white garbed men clinking their glasses together.

"How'd it feel, eh?"

"What?"

"Killing the fucker. Capping him in his shriveled old brain, skullfucking him with brass?"

Benny stood in a moment of mock contemplation, turning his gaze upwards in an exaggerated gesture of putting thought into his answer.

He stroked his chin, purring out a drawn out 'hmm' as he tried to recall the moment. Well, what else was there? He went in, let him rant for a little, and shot him. Too damn tired to care about anything more by that point.

But he couldn't just say that, no, he needed to… play it up a little, he supposed. Make it a little more extravagant.

"Well it was… good, I guess."

_Fuck. _He trailed off, a numbness settling over his tongue as he tried to shake off an encroaching wave of nausea. Sleep deprivation wasn't doing his wit many favors clearly.

"Not quite as satisfying as getting piss drunk at the cocktail bar right after though. Gotta say, for an old man hooked up to a life support machine, he sure kept around a lotta alcohol. And don't even get me started on the creepy robo-hookers he kept around-"

That got them going. Slowly at first, just a few chuckles here and there, but he supposed with the liquid gold of wine, champagne, whiskey, flowing free, they quickly rose up in a frenzy of wicked laughter. Their own eager responses flew through the choked air.

"No wonder the old man was so cranky! Shit, all he had to do was holler on over to us!"

"Sorry! We don't serve wrinkled old fucking weirdos!"

Big Sal's gravelly cackles drowned out all the rest. Shearing on his eardrums like sandpaper, scratching and itching along with the screech of filtered, cheap jazz.

"Don't you worry Benny Boy," he said. "You come to us? You get only the best."

One of the far doors flew open in a flourish of aged wood and faded velvet, and out sauntered a motely assortment of men and women, parading onto the rich crimson carpet with the firelight dancing off of their bare skin.

Benny tried to keep the mask of politeness plastered on his face, even as a renewed tide of dizziness washed over his head. Their writhing shadows danced on the blood red walls, their silky catcalls adding another layer to the pounding cacophony worming into his ears.

He blinked, tears almost beginning to well in his eyes as another brace of cigars were lit, the stinging smoke permeating the stuffed room.

"Hey, uh-"

But Sal was already gone.

His hand twitched.

_Out, _he thought.

_Need to get out._

He felt like he needed to vomit, like the sheer excess and lust choking the cramped confines of the room were clawing at him, slipping past the seams of his checkered suit and threatening to gut him inside out-

He grunted, trying to slide past the rubbing bodies in the crowd, brushing aside the occasional tendril of flesh or trunk of muscle that slid out to graze sensually down the pressed cloth of his garments.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled out, stepping between gruesome tangles of bodies, a few momentary curses or purring silky invitations thrown his way.

He nearly tripped over a pair of men groping on the floor, ducked under the arched back of a writhing woman, and finally stumbled out of the ensuing orgy to the bright red door that beckoned to him.

Perhaps too eagerly, he reached out with a calloused hand and yanked the door open.

His heart leapt into his throat as he found himself staring into a ghostly pale face, beady brown eyes gazing coldly back at him.

"Something wrong hon?"

"It's it-"

The wild, distorted shrieks of pleasure gradually died down, back to a more muted tune of giggles and groans over amiable chatter.

He craned his neck around, finding a few groups of white-suited men looking at him quizzically with their drinks still in their hand.

_Wha-wh-what the fuck-_

He whipped back to the door, almost expecting, hoping, that the ghostly apparition he'd seen was just a batshit hallucination as well-

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

_Now you've done it. Great time to go tripping balls, while meeting with the heads of one of Vegas' most profitable casinos- _

He straightened his back, cleared his throat, and prepared to explain himself to Big Sal, only to whirl around just in time to have him brush right past and confront the woman unwittingly blocking his way out.

"What kind of fucking world do you live in where ten minutes equals fifteen, huh? I tell you to get here in ten, you get in here in ten! Not nine, not eleven, not a millisecond off, _ten!_"

Slowly, a little bit bewilderedly, Benny turned around, the only sound in the room now the music blaring from the speakers. The woman was no hallucination, but goddamn if his initial assessment of her being pale as a ghost wasn't far off.

To her credit, she didn't even flinch as Sal roughly stormed past her, muttering something about 'goddamned addicts' under his breath before disappearing down the drab lit hallway.

She turned her piercing gaze onto him, those brown eyes sitting in sunken eye sockets blotted out with eyeliner might as well being hollow with how indifferently they looked at him with.

"You, uh… know where the washroom is?"

**0-0-0**

Carlitos' heart skipped a beat at just about every body they passed. Every lump of broken flesh lying on the grime encrusted ground, every streak of crimson blood splattered callously across the wall had him waiting for the hellish revelation that he was too late. Waiting for the sick twist of fate that would show Joana's pallid face plastered on the bullet stitched lumps of dead meat.

Every muffled burst of gunfire in the distance, always a practiced and curt trio of _bangs _set him stumbling in his step. Every cry of pain that followed had him redoubling his pace, until he came across the next pile of corpses.

Whether they wore the pressed white suits of Omerta thugs, were bound in the black leather and chains of those under their servitude, or the wrinkled formal wear of the unlucky customers in the wrong place at the wrong time, they all sported the same bloody, raw craters punched through their bodies.

Under the artificial red lights of the halls, the rich blood still snaking down from the filthy walls seemed to glow with a vibrant violence.

He never did get used to it, no matter how many bodies he passed. No matter how many times he saw the palette of hollow faces and glazed eyes zip by, that sinking feeling pure dread sat like a brick of lead in his stomach.

"Fucking hell," breathed Big Bear as they stepped over a pair of dead prostitutes that couldn't have been much older than their late teens, a wiry boy shackled to silver chains frozen in a frantic tangle of blasted meat and bone with the girl he'd stumbled over.

Carlitos wasn't sure what was more horrifying- that the Omertas were recruiting them so young, or that the cold Brotherhood bastard had shot them down like everything else.

Fucking Demons and Angels- what was the difference?

On and on they continued their morbid march through the snaking halls, the sounds of gunfire always seeming so much farther ahead of them, no matter how fast they ran.

"Oh shit. Is that what I think it is?"

When he heard the thumping clatter of footsteps behind him briefly pause, Carlitos had to screech to a halt in his breakneck run, the soles of his polished shoes grinding across the congealed blood on the ground.

Only this time, mixed in with the heaps of shredded corpses was the faded blue bulk of a Securitron. Strips of metal peeled off of its boxy chassis, gaping holes blasting out twisted bundles of sparking wires.

At one point, he might have questioned why the hell there was one in Gomorrah. But he was far past that point by then.

Perhaps if he wasn't, he would have been more wary of his surroundings. Perhaps if he wasn't, he may have stood there and contemplated with his companions the implications of its presence.

Either way, it wouldn't have changed anything.

When that second bot rolled around the corner, the facial display screen cracked into a twisted snarl, tendrils of black smoke welling out from festering gashes in its armor, nothing he did could have stopped the torrent of 9mm parabellum that spat out from the metal beast's arm.

The domed heads dug into his gut, spilling bloody blossoms on the dirty white plains of his suit.

_"Shit!"_

_ "Fuck!" _

_ "-t- target neutralized-" _

Flares of orange lit up on the encroaching black of his periphery, muzzle flashes dancing across the walls in a rhythmic strobe.

Before he knew it, he was staring at those walls, the shaved skin of his cheek pressed against the sticky, congealed blood on the ground.

_"NO! N-"_

_ "-t-tar-target neutralized-" _

**0-0-0**

The faucet groaned, a strain of rusted metal piping filling his ears before a rush of clear water splashed into his cupped hands.

He brought it up to his face, uncaring of the streaks of water that rushed past his haggard visage and landed on his suit, unheeding of the drops of liquid that whirled and mixed in with the oil of his slicked black hair.

Benny sucked in deep breaths as he let the water cool on his face, wiping away the sheen of sweat and liquid with his sleeve before repeating the process again.

He relished the tide of shocking cold as it crashed over his head, slipping down the collar of his shirt and caressing the taut muscle of his neck, like-

He dipped his hands down for another run, the liquid ice washing away those thoughts in a sobering torrent.

He didn't bother to turn the sink off. Just let the water stream out of the faucet in a cleansing cascade, the water in this place about the only thing he could think of that didn't reek with tobacco, alcohol, or sex.

An intoxicating inferno was what this damn place was.

He was going to leave as soon as possible, he decided. He'd just head back to Big Sal, give his little stamp of approval, and wrap up the business visit before the claws of this Hell dragged him down.

A steamy hot breath blew out of his nostrils, a white cloud congealing on the grimy mirror in front of him.

He looked up into his reflection, watching his skin refract through the droplets of water slipping down its surface. His hand twitched.

**0-0-0**

Up, down, and around. In smooth, practiced motions she went around the metal pole, unheeding of the mechanical stiffness in her joints. The brittle cartilage could moan and snap however much it wanted, that wouldn't stop her from shattering it if needed to maintain the watery dance of her limbs.

This was what she did, and she was good at it.

People paid for this.

Her hips burned with protest as she brought a leg up, swiftly, but gracefully, so as not to give the impression of a clumsy and jerky machine.

_Good girl, _she heard them croak. The clumsy and greasy Brahmin that watched, that sat in awe of her grace, that they could never match.

She tilted her head back, unheeding of a brief lapse in their attention, an oddly violent snap of noise threatening to shake her from her routine. It was enough to briefly send her off balance.

Her back arched, and a loud, collective gasp rolled through the crowd as they waited in suspense- the hairs of her head dangled precariously over the filthy, blood red carpet, the cords of muscle in her legs strained to their maximum as they fought to keep their grip on the pole-

A lesser being would've buckled under the stress, given up. But this was her job, this was her duty, to please the lesser beings-

And so she fought back, and when her strength wasn't enough, she used her wit.

A swing of the arm, to the audience, a sweeping gesture that cast aside the scratchy cloth over her chest, but for her, a violent, precise strike, the briefest shift in her balance letting the aching muscles of her leg swivel her back up in a smooth motion.

So swift and expertly done was her maneuver that the crowd screamed their approval, glasses shattering across the ground, flashes of golden light in the air as the precious champagne they cast aside caught the filtered rays of light dancing off of her skin.

So excited they were, that they leapt out of their bloody crimson cushions and couches, falling over in the process, the stiffness of their limbs holding them back from ascending to this plane that she existed in, above the grovelling masses, above the grit and filth of reality.

They cast up liquid roses into the air, to the thundering tune of chattering drums, bombastic clashes of brass drowning out the mundane monotone of mortality.

Opened up their mouths, opened up their hearts, their purses, their wallets, for her.

Flourishing gold coins flashed through the air, out of the blossoms of glittering champagne, a rain of wealth, a godly tonne of angelic metal too much for them to bear.

They opened up their suits, their dresses, their skin, their flesh, splitting open in colorful splashes of extravagant red, a rare and rich liquid that ran deeper than wine, brighter than the dancing flames splayed across her lithe form.

Embers of extinguished life rained from the ceiling, their roses exploding outwards in twirling petals, soothing warm droplets that streaked down her skin.

She didn't want it to end. It was glorious, slick, hot, sending her blood pumping through her flaccid veins in a rigor she'd not felt in too long, restoring the life to this hollow shell of a body she'd inhabited, laughter welling up in her lungs while tears pooled in her eyes.

For all things came to an end, as she had learned long ago. And the realm of gods, angels, was not meant for mere mortals such as her.

She raised her head back up, her twirls crawling back to the monotonous pace of reality, and with a final flourish, she brought her heels clicking down on the blood stained carpet.

**0-0-0**

His eyes felt so damn heavy.

Dim red crawled down the melting walls, a sludgy mix of blood and aged paint.

A faint, strained whirring was all he could hear now, the soft crunch of wheels rolling over cracked bone.

Funny. He didn't recall the color red feeling so cold before.

Red.

A part of him wanted to just… leave. Sleep, the cold would go away on its own eventually. Just… wrap himself in the (_red_) blankets again…

Yeah, that was it.

And yet, his eyes still refused to shut.

A spray of velvet landed on the ground beneath him, blurring in the frosted glass of his glazing eyes.

_Just let me go to sleep, _he thought drunkenly, the bitter taste of warm liquid still pooling in his throat.

_Come on, hon. One more round?_

_ Not now, J-_

Carlitos' eyelids shot wide open.

**0-0-0**

"Goddamn it!"

So much for getting his suit cleaned- fucking hell, he should've listened to Swank and had a few more pressed way back when. Uniqueness didn't mean much when a couple of bullets punched through the cloth.

Benny tumbled behind an overturned table as a flurry of machine gun fire zipped past his ear, a flaming ozone mixing with the coppery scent of blood.

He let out an animal yelp of agony when his wounded shoulder collided with the splintered wood much harder than he'd been predicting, a solid barrier of pain rolling through the brittle frame of his bones.

Throughout all these years, he'd always wondered if it was luck or instinct that saved his ass. Sure as hell weren't his nerves of steel.

Whatever it was, it worked its magic again, sending him careening to the side, diving into a pile of split flesh and squelching gore as the very table he'd hidden behind just moments ago exploded into a shower of pulp shrapnel, the metallic rattle of gunfire cackling at the destruction.

Sometimes though, that same subconscious… hunch, he would call it- luck was for losers and instinct for brickheads- got him into his fair share of shit as well. Like now, when it gave him the infinitesimally wise advice of unleashing a clip of 9mm rounds on a Paladin clad in power armor.

A trio of metallic pings rang out pathetically in the smoke-choked club room, the Paladin turning its hollow visor upon him. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the insanity of this hell, but he could've sworn the cheeky thing tilted its head at him in mockery, before snapping its weapon up.

Benny couldn't really tell what happened first- the ironclad being raised their gun, a flash of blinding orange light blotted out his view of the bloody slaughter, and he felt a brace of bullets burrow into his chest.

He didn't like that. Not the getting shot part, no, that was kind of a given.

He hated it when things came spinning out of order. When the steps got scrambled, and the trainwreck piled up in an unrecognizable mass of metal- you blinked, and you missed that crucial little ping of metal on metal, that wheel that was just a little bit off the rails, the look of shock creasing over the person handling the vehicle- which one happened first? Was it a mechanical failure that caused the conductor to lose their shit, or did something spook them, causing them to lose control of the train?

Cause and effect- the why of it all.

Sure, he had an idea of why this Paladin _could _be stalking over to his bleeding form at the moment, but he couldn't be certain. Platinum Chip was probably the most obvious answer, but who said the thing couldn't be there for other reasons? Maybe it was out for revenge. Maybe it was the ghost of that Courier he'd shot for the Chip in the first place, coming to deliver divine punishment.

Despite the blood rapidly pooling his lungs, he hacked out a laugh at that last thought.

That, was a fucking stupid last thing for a person to think before they died.

**0-0-0**

The gunshot rang in her ears as her hand snaked out into the blood slicked strands of carpet, lithe fingers slipping through the frayed ends searching for the familiar touch of a cigar. Firm, but just loosely packed together enough that it would cave in just the right amount when you squeezed on it, when you had to remind yourself of the bitter warm comfort you held in your hands.

Brass casings and wooden gun stocks was all she found for the time being.

_Come on, _she thought irritably. One of these fuckers must've been smoking one when they got capped, right?

A large shadow fell over her, and the ground trembled with heavy steel footfalls as the Paladin strode up to her. She looked up, finding herself gazing down the barrel of its weapon.

"Got a smoke?" She croaked.

**0-0-0**

_Joana._

_ Joana. _

He repeated the mantra in his head as he stumbled forth drunkenly, the overwhelming stench of curdling blood clogging his nostrils.

White suited bodies laid piled high in front of him, mounds of weeping blood, the pleasures of flesh that man cherished so, lying in desecrated silence.

_Joana._

_ Just a little farther. _

_ We got this. _

_ I didn't sign up for this shit._

_ We'll be knocking back drinks at the bar before we know it. _

Time slurred by, and when he next opened his eyes, he was lying on a grimy bed of crimson again. He blinked, looking up at the whumping ceiling fan, a light wisp of smoke trailing up to its whipping blades.

All around him, he could feel the soft touch of human flesh.

His eyes rolled down, and through his fading vision, he reached out, and croaked one last word with his weakening breath.

"Joana?"

The woman huffed out a puff of smoke, casting aside her cigar and sparing a curious glance at him.

"Nope, sorry. Joana doesn't work Mondays anymore."

**0-0-0**


End file.
